I’m fucking exhausted. The past two rounds of this match has felt like five hours. My face hurts, my knuckles are bleeding, and my lungs feel like glass shards. This has got to be my toughest fight yet. But I can’t tap out or give up. I’ve got money riding on this, and my reputation.

And you.

I always hold myself to a higher standard whenever I know that you’re here watching. It makes me want to punch harder, kick smoother, and win just to make you proud. Because I know that it took you a minute to even accept that this was my job.

When we first started dating, I hid this side of my life with you. I told you that I worked at some warehouse job and the bruises and cuts were from hard labor. Looking back, I don’t know how you believed that even for a second. No man gets a broken nose on the job and still goes back.

Unless you’re an illegal fighter like me. Then that’s just a Monday.

When I confessed, you didn’t talk to me for a week. I thought I’d lost you for good and I was torn up by that. I threw myself in the ring, in weight classes I wasn’t qualified for, just to feel something. But getting beaten down in the ring didn’t make me feel any better.

When you came around, you were to distant and cold while you proposed your case. You didn’t want to know all the inner-working of the illegal shit that goes on, but you didn’t want to break up. And over time, you got used to me coming home late all cut up and broken down. You got good with a first aid kit and learned to love even this side of me.

So much so that eventually you decided to come to a match. I swore I never fought better than that night, like I had something to prove. Because I did. Just because you had come didn’t mean that you liked it, so I needed to make you proud. And when I won, I took my cash and drove us to a 24/hr diner and let you pick out anything and everything you wanted to eat.

After that, you came to a couple more matches and you became my good luck charm. We always celebrate together after my wins now—after you use your emergency first aid kit in the car to make me look somewhat presentable.

But tonight is different. Since I’ve been going up in the ranks here, they’re putting me up against some of their best fighters. I’m talking huge guys with vengeance in their eyes. I’m not a scrawny little thing, not in the slightest, but even I know I’m at a slight disadvantage here.

When the bell rings, I get back into my fighting stance, pushing away the pulsing pain that’s radiating through my body. As we circle the ring, intimidating one another, I spot you in the crowd. Your hands are on your face, preparing to shield your eyes, and you have the most nervous expression on your face. Just seeing you makes my—

My head snaps to the side when my opponent clocks me in the jaw. I immediately feel the pain shoot all throughout my face like bullet grazed my skin. While I’m dazed, I don’t even have a second to get my bearings before he’s griping onto my shoulders and ramming his knee into my stomach. I practically fold over like an omelette. The yells from the crowd tell me that his is bad.

I hit the mat on my side, clutching my stomach with my eyes pinched shut. That’s why I don’t see his next swing coming, right for the head again.

And then the world blinks black.

The sounds of their counts, timing how long I’m down, go in tandem with my waves on consciousness.

”One!”

My eyes flutter open, seeing the pool of red forming around my face.

“Two!”

My eyes open again, not knowing how much time has passed. But I try to move. It hurts too much.

”Three!”

I groan as I fade back in, feeling all the pain at once.

”Four!”

“Harry! Let me go! Harry! Come on, baby! Open your eyes! Let me go!” your voice, I can hear it so clearly.

“Five!”

The final bell rings, signaling that I’ve lost.

Eyes open, I can make out the people. It’s you, trying to get into the ring. Trying to get to me. But men are holding you back. You’re screaming. Fuck, my body hurts. You’re crying. My jaw. I need you.

“…{{user}}”